


Last Orders

by arthur_177



Category: Daredevil (2003), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Casual Sex and Violence, Depression, M/M, Not-giving-a-damn-to-the-extent-of-probably-suicidal-intent, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 08:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthur_177/pseuds/arthur_177
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a sad state of affairs when the only half-decent pub in town is not only incapable of pouring Guinness right but also comes with an annoying guy showing off at darts when all Clint wants to do is drown his sorrows and memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Orders

**Author's Note:**

> For an Avengers Kinkmeme Prompt that asked for Hawkeye/Bullseye. I went with movie-canon because my comic-canon is very dodgy at this stage, and it turned a lot more depressing than originally planned. 
> 
> Spoilers for the movie, hence warning for canon character death and Clint being in a very bad place. It has Bullseye, so that should warn for a whole catalogue of things even if I only have movie canon to work on; perhaps most importantly, Clint is acting in a somewhat devil-may-care and reckless fashion which may be seen as suicidal intent by not giving a damn, so heed warning if that might be an issue.

They don't do pubs here like they do on the continent, he muses. He muses because he's on his third pint, because Clint Barton doesn't do musing (Tasha would give him an odd and knowing look, but then Tasha knows about Irish pubs, Tasha knows more anyone knows about Clint apart from Trickshot, and Trickshot is dead.).

He remembers Irish Pubs, remembers Tasha using the attractive tourist routine to get them cheap drinks just because she could, remembers the exact moment when Coulson folds and accepts that they are having this debriefing in a corner in a cosy pub in an undisclosed location between Cardiff and Glasgow, remembers smiling and feeding the jukebox pound coins and trying to make Tasha make Coulson do shots of Aftershock because the op went so well and it was back then when they thought they were invincible.

But that was back then, and now the Guinness isn't poured right and the music is awful and the floor is sticking to his shoes, and Coulson is dead because he killed him. They don't do pubs here like the used to do on the continent.

He has sorrows to drown (and a masochistic streak, probably, because he knows with all the clarity in the world as he orders the next pint that he's doing this so Tasha can kick his ass for it, so Fury can glare at him, so Hill can shout at him and Stark point out that he needs to get over his dead boyfriend, they have world-saving to do. He's used to mission directives. He will make sure that come morning, nobody will forgive Clint Barton for what he did, what he was, what he is), so he puts up with the bad pints. He even puts up with the guy winning at darts who's beating Stark at obnoxiousness (and who's beating that Wilson guy Coulson told Fury he'd have to recruit over his dead body at insanity. But this is more about Coulson than he can bear already, so he makes it a pint and a shot to the demise of obnoxiousness instead).

But he's a bright-eyed kid from the circus and a highly trained assassin with a partially dead soul, so he grows bored (guilty) of staring into his pint after ten seconds and observes instead. The guy is good, he has to give him that. He's done the whole 'shooting without looking routine' for practice (to save the Avengers' respective asses; to impress Coulson), but there's showing off and there's showing off after your third pint without giving a damn about anyone in the room. It's target practice in a pub; it's doing what you're good at when you know that everyone knows instinctively what you've done, who you are, why they are keeping a distance, especially if you're holding pointy objects. Clint swallows a mouthful of Guinness and self-loathing. He can relate to that.

He can also do better.

Half a pint later, the competition is on, and he's been called a bloody 'merican amateur, and called the other guy worse. Darts aren't his strong suit by a long shot, but he'll be damned if Earth's finest marksman (damn tabloids) loses to a guy whose costume consists of a leather coat and an Irish accent.

Another pint later, and the crowd has wandered off bored because a matched competition is tedious to watch. They've switched to competing in insults, the darts being simply something they can occupy their hands with, and Clint would be tempted to offer first name basis except for the fact that the guy doesn't seem to have a first name and nobody has called him Clint since Coulson smiled the tight smile of a man with a bullet in his abdomen and told them (Clint, Natasha, I need you to listen and do exactly as I say) how to salvage what was left of the mission in Budapest. He takes 'Agent Barton' with all the mocking it entails and nurses his pint and his pain and the false assumption that he could kick the guy's ass on a proper range (except it's like the circus all over again, and it may not be SHIELD protocol, but Clint knows not to underestimate a guy who can hurt people with paperclips and pencils. He should know, he had a handler like that once, before he killed him in cold blood and colder eyes.).

They may be a shite pub, but they do last call and the bell and lights on and all that properly, so Clint finds himself in the rain on a sidestreet in New York much earlier than he'd have needed on a night like this. Additionally, technically it was his round, so he still had to buy the drinks and hit bullseye three times [figuratively, not literally, although the feeling of a friendly punch in the face appeared to have been mutual rather quickly].

Then again, you can trust an Irish guy to know when a pub is shite and what to do in that sort of situation. And you can trust a carnie never to turn down welcome hospitality, and a self-loathing Clint Barton to jump at the first opportunity to do something rash and/or stupid.

And so half an hour later they are in a ridiculously posh flat (pays to be the bad guy, Clint learns), drinking Jamieson's from a shared bottle (he's not a friend yet, he doesn't get the good stuff anytime soon), and they are reaching the stage where it moves from boasting and insults to commiserating and sympathy far too quickly for Clint's liking.

In retrospect he doesn't know whether it was the whisky, or the tension worked up by two expert marksmen competing, or the threat of an insane assassin looking him in the eye with an expression of pity and sympathy, telling him he was sorry for his pain and his loss, but one of the three, or all of them, did it. Definitively did it. And consequently, he retrieves his coat from the top of a wardrobe (the taste of whisky. Being pushed against a wardrobe. Pushing back. If you're staying you might as well lose the coat, mine's nicer anyway. Still want a costume though.), his boots from behind a potted plant (we're going to regret this in the morning. - Still so gloomy. Speak for yourself. Two master marksmen? Don't think there's any missing of crucial spots about to happen tonight), the dog tags (you touch them, you're dead. Are we clear? - Perfectly. Not a genius myself, but you might want to have that 'break my neck while you're at it, but so help you if you touch the shiny metal' thing looked at. - You want an arrow in that target on your forehead, or are we clear?), his shirt from the kitchen table (That must have hurt, the guy says commenting on the bullet wound on his right shoulder while finishing his glass of whisky with one hand and dragging down the zipper of his jeans with the other. It did, he says. Are we done talking? I have self-pity to drown and haven't gotten laid in months [not since, he doesn't say. He doesn't owe the guy explanations], and you promised me a mindless fuck). He hears the object before he feels it imbed itself in his right shoulder. Fan of symmetry?, he asks as he plucks the object – straightened paperclip, neatly coated in blood - from his back. Aye. Call me next time you're in town. - Getting romantic, are we. - 'course, gentleman that I am. Always happy to treat a good shot to a pint, a good fuck and a broken neck, since you seem to be out for all of them.

Clint doesn't look back as he leaves. The only person who knew he was a romantic at heart is dead because of him, and anyone who asks will hear that having an insane assassin on speed dial might come in handy one day.

In his dreams, he wakes up in his bed, the point of a dagger aimed at him from the door with a far too sympathetic smile. The weapon hits his throat, and he always smiles as the blood soaks into his shirt.

When he wakes, he still smiles, up to the point where he realizes that Coulson is dead because of him. Having an insane assassin on speed dial was a purely professional decision. It is possible to stab oneself with an arrow, but it's unprofessional. Coulson hated unprofessional.

He picks at the wound on his shoulder while he stares at his reflection, practising his most convincing 'passing psych eval' speech so they'll clear him for duty again. He's managed worse.  
And if all else fails, he has someone to go for a pint with and to stick to a promise.


End file.
